Forgiven
by erunyauve
Summary: What will become of the people of Maedhros and Maglor after the War of Wrath? Celebrimbor negotiates their future and comes to a decision about his own.


**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns the characters and plots. I'm just playing in his garden.

_Who shall release us?_ (1)

Between the two guards stood a scarred and battle-worn elf. In the fabric of his cloak, faded and patched though it was, one could see the memory of bright scarlet cloth. "My lords wish parley with their brother-son."

Gil-galad considered him silently. "They cannot come here," he said at length, glancing at Círdan as he spoke. His foster-father's face remained impassive, however. "Better you should meet with them at their camp," he said to Celebrimbor.

He turned to the messenger. "His safety is assured?"

"We do not kill our own," the elf snapped.

"Indeed?"

The elf suddenly seemed to find the dirt floor a fascinating tableau, and Celebrimbor hid a smile. Gil-galad had a way of looking at people and knowing the truth of their hearts. He would not be deceived by the likes of Ulfang or Túrin.

The Fëanorians had built their camp several leagues west of Mithlond, and Anor hung directly overhead when they arrived. Celebrimbor could smell food cooking for the midday meal, but the camp was deserted.

And then he saw them, still and watchful in the shadows.

In the haste from Balar, they had taken few provisions and even fewer possessions, but Mithlond's tent city looked like Valinor next to the miserable conditions of the Fëanorians. Like the messenger, these elves wore clothes held together only by a determined needle and thread. A few tents sagged sadly, but most of the people were sleeping under woven boughs. They must have learnt that art from the Laiquendi, but Celebrimbor saw no elves of that kind. Only the most faithful had remained with their lords; if he dared to look into the scarred faces, he would recognise horsemasters, coopers and chambermaids he had known since childhood.

By duty and love for their lords, they had committed crimes beyond reason. Silent though the camp might be, he knew that nights, when these elves walked their dreampaths, were not so.

Maedhros gave only a nod before turning away.

Celebrimbor had last seen him before the Dagor Bragollach - hardly more than an ennin ago - but he had aged as no Elf should. Furrows of worry, pain and guilt had made permanent creases in his face. Once counted among the fairest of the Noldor, Maedhros now would arouse more pity than envy.

"You look well," Maglor said. "We hear you are close in the young king's counsel."

He shrugged. "I have known him longer than most." Gil-galad had gathered near to him those who had been loyal to his father, but he doubted that any save Círdan were in his close counsel.

"It was a grievous thing, to your father, that you parted from him so."

"Káno-" he began, but Maglor held up his hand to silence him.

"Do not mistake me! We were glad for you. But I thought you should know."

Maedhros cut them off abruptly. "We are leaving, and we cannot take our people with us."

Understanding came to him at once. "You mean to go after the Silmarilli."

"Eönwë refuses to yield them to us - our claim is to be decided by the Valar. And we have no trust in their wisdom."

"And more lives taken, more innocent blood spilt, in that wisdom you trust?"

Maglor looked away; evidently, the brothers did not agree. Perhaps there was still hope.

"We are damned either way, Tyelpë. But at least we shall be free, and hounded no more by our Oath."

But no. In vain did one argue with the Oath. Eyes half-closed, Celebrimbor thought instead of the problem given to him. Those who had turned against their lords at Sirion had been pardoned as a necessity - they had nowhere else to go. The wounded who chose not to return to their lords had sworn an oath of fealty and earned pardon. Gil-galad, following his father's example and good sense, had refused to bloody his hands. The folk who still followed Maedhros and Maglor, however, were another matter.

"Would they swear loyalty to the High King?" he asked. "I cannot guarantee they would be pardoned," he added quickly. "I will need to speak with my King."

"I think," Maedhros said grimly, "to be released from our service would be a relief."

Outside the camp, Poldon frolicked with the horses of the Fëanorians. Horses, apparently, did not fault one another for the wicked purpose to which they carried their masters. As Celebrimbor called for Poldon, an elf touched his sleeve.

Head bowed, her hair hid her face from him. "You once knew me, lord," she said, "but you would not know me now. Yet, this I would have you know: we meant no evil. We have served our lords, in love and in fear of the Void. Perhaps, for what we have done, such is also our fate. I do not know. But we meant no evil."

* * *

Gil-galad's face fell as Celebrimbor explained the situation. "I suppose I knew I would have to confront this sooner or later," he said.

Already, some had spoken of exacting their own justice. Gil-galad had forbidden his people to set foot within a league of the Fëanorian camp. "Would you begin this Age with another Kinslaying? Eönwë knows where to find them. Let the Valar dispense judgement, if they will it."

"As they did with Melkor?" some grumbled, but even the most vengeful hearts recoiled at the mention of Kinslaying.

'Let him have his faith,' Celebrimbor thought. The Valar had offered pardon to those who would ask it, save a handful of 'agitators', as they termed them. None of the simple folk still with Maedhros and Maglor had such power in Valinor to earn that distinction, but many mistrusted the Valar and any promises they might make.

"These are not great elf-lords, Artanáro. They were attendants and artisans in my grandfather's service - they know to be discreet about their business. They will not give you trouble."

He said nothing to Gil-galad about the Silmarilli, though family loyalty had not served him well thus far. He took comfort in knowing that his father had cared enough, even in his madness, to regret their parting, but he had chosen rightly. He would never cleanse his hands of the blood of Alqualondë.

Still, could he betray his father's brothers?

He did not have long to ponder this, and perhaps that was fortunate. When he returned to his tent, a Vanyarin messenger awaited him.

"Airë Eönwë requests your presence, lord."

He remained in Endor to persuade Gil-galad's people to forsake him for the Blessed Realm, and so it had suited Eönwë to encamp just north of Mithlond's docks. Next to the Maia's tent, the Silmarilli were kept under guard, and Celebrimbor saw that he had been right: only by bloodshed would they be taken. He knew what he must do before Eönwë finished greeting him.

"I know it," Eönwë brought him up shortly. "The fate of Arda is already locked within them, and I cannot change what is to come."

Celebrimbor's face must have betrayed his dismay - and disgust - at the cavalier attitude toward the lives protecting the jewels.

"We are not unprepared," Eönwë assured him. "We look for their coming. But I called you to discuss your own fate. Will you be taking ship, Tyelperinquar?"

"I assumed I would have no right to go West.'

"You are not considered to have been an agitator. You need only ask for pardon for your part in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë."

"I can ask it, but I am not certain that I deserve it."

"That is to be decided."

Now, they would get to the truth of the matter. He understood why Maedhros and Maglor's people had no faith but fear in the Valar's promise of pardon.

"Manwë himself strongly advises that you sail West."

"So that I can be tried?"

"This is a personal message. It is entirely separate from any guilt you may bear."

"May I think on it?"

"Do not think too long," Eönwë warned. "Your attachments to Endor will grow ever stronger, and Manwë does not offer his counsel lightly."

No. He knew that such 'counsel' was as near to an order as the Valar were permitted.

"Tyelperinquar, pardon is given by the grace of the grantor. Whether forgiveness is deserved is determined not by what one has done, but what one will do with a second chance."

* * *

Lightning-quick, Aeglos darted into the water and swept up in a smooth arc, a silver fish on its point. Celebrimbor thought of the many mornings he had awakened on Balar to find a string of freshly-caught fish hanging at his door.

"I did not hear quite the same message." Gil-galad pulled a rueful smile. He sat on a rock to clean the fish. "I had no intention of going West - I know my duty. Still, it is one thing to know it and quite another to be held to it."

Celebrimbor's eyes swept the shoreline for things that glinted in the sunlight. The tide still brought armour and weapons from the deeps of Beleriand. Early on, the dead - mostly Orcs, but also Elves and Men - had washed ashore, and crews had come daily to gather and burn the corpses. Even now, he had to be cautious when collecting scrap - the arm of a suit of armour might not be empty. He had once found a golden helm that was unfortunately still occupied by the head of its Orkish thief.

"He told you that you could not sail West?"

"Not...precisely. Rather, I was told I might delay so long as my duty lies here."

"In other words, you are to remain for the foreseeable future."

Gil-galad put the fish in oilcloth and knelt by the water to clean his hands and knife. "So, you will go West, then?" he asked.

Manwë's message had taken him wholly by surprise, for he had truly believed the West to be closed to him. Indeed, he thought it odd that he should be offered that grace where Galadriel was denied it. "What do you think I should do?"

"My wishes have no bearing here." Gil-galad tugged at his braid, as if agitated. "If Manwë has ordered it, how can you refuse?"

"I am prepared to disobey him."

Now, Celebrimbor found himself under the High King's piercing gaze. He looked away.

"I am thinking on it," he mumbled. "He said not that I must go in all haste."

No, such was the advice of Eönwë. When he looked up again, he saw only near-Finwëan blue-grey eyes, softened of disapproval. Such was surely the attachment against which Eönwë had warned him - an attachment no less for being unremarked and unreturned.

* * *

"It is a curious thing, duty. We do not choose it but have it imposed upon us. What would the High King have done had he been told to sail, rather than stay?" Pengolodh swept a pile of bound manuscripts into his arms, making space on a bench.

"I do not know," Celebrimbor said slowly, but he wished he had thought to ask. He took the cleared seat ere the loremaster could fill the empty space. The tent looked as if it had been ransacked by Lambengolmor outlaws. Every elf who took ship had a tale to tell, and many of these elves had left their stories with the loremaster. Their memories and regrets would not go with them.

"More importantly, what is your duty? You are a prince of the Noldor, and unless I am wrong, the line of your House will end with you. What legacy will the House of Fëanor leave in Ennor? Understand," Pengolodh added quickly, "that I do not counsel you to defy the Elder King."

Shuffling through the manuscripts, he finally located the one he wanted and gave it to Celebrimbor. "This elf was a member of Fingolfin's council - I daresay our King will find it interesting.

"You carry the weight of responsibility - rightly or wrongly - for what your forebears have done," Pengolodh continued. "What duty does that impose upon you?"

An answer had begun to take shape by the time he reached the tent Gil-galad shared with Círdan. The Doom of the Noldor worked still against the Elves: _And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after._ (2)

He would bring ease where his kin brought suffering, lift the burden wrought by the Doom that Fëanor had called upon all of their kindred.

Gil-galad's head was bent over reports from his scouts. Though nearly all effort was given to the building of ships going West, he had sent a few of his people to look for a suitable place to found a city. Across the table, Círdan was marking a map of the land.

"We will need to turn our thought toward more sturdy shelter, soon - it will be too late in the season for ships to depart, in any case," Círdan said. "Firith belongs to Ossë."

Without looking up, Gil-galad put one of the reports into Celebrimbor's hands.

"Tell me what you think."

"About the people of Maedhros and Maglor," he began.

"They shall be pardoned. What else am I to do?"

"It is a difficult course you have chosen," Círdan said. "You will have the weaver living next to the stone mason who slew his son."

"Now, you give your advice?"

"I give no advice, merely my thoughts," Círdan answered blithely.

"I am well aware of the difficulties. Yet, I will not endure these divisions," Gil-galad said earnestly. "We destroyed ourselves with distrust and treachery once before." Despite the certainty of his tone, he glanced anxiously at Círdan.

"It is the right thing to do. You do not need me to tell you that."

"I will send an escort when they are ready, then," Gil-galad said, turning to Celebrimbor. He put down his reports. "And you, what have you decided?"

_Whether forgiveness is deserved is determined not by what one has done, but what one will do with a second chance._

"I cannot right the wrongs we have done, and I am only a shadow of my grandfather's talent. Yet, such abilities as I have shall be of little consequence in the Blessed Realm. Here, I can do the most good.

Gil-galad let out his breath slowly. "Then you are staying."

"I am staying."

* * *

(1) _The Silmarillion_, 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil' p 262 pub Houghton Mifflin Kindle Edition

(2) _Ibid_, 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 79


End file.
